


I Dare You To Kiss Me

by Tav



Category: Inception (2010)
Genre: Get Together, M/M, Pining, father daughter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-29
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-01 20:32:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 20,058
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4033588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tav/pseuds/Tav
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two entirely different lives collide at a wedding and sparks fly. They fly like the rim of a flat tire scraping against the highway. </p><p>Eames will NOT give up without a fight.</p><p>Arthur wishes he would. Because Arthur is very weak.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So this was originally posted on another site, but I felt so wrong not sharing it with this community especially since the characters were based completely on Arthur and Eames. Guess I didn’t think I would ever pull off fanfiction as Ive always loved reading it – read some absolutely amazing fics – but still coward away to just normal fiction. 
> 
> So anyway, lets check if I might be able to pull this off – editing the next chapter as we speak. So lemme know what you think.

“I’m sorry; it almost sounded like you just said you divorced Cobb because he didn’t refill the tray with water after using the last ice cube.”

“I didn’t stutter.”

“Frozen water, love?”

“It isn’t about the ice, Eames,” she swiftly hijacks a glass of white wine from a passing tray, grinning flirtatiously at the young waiter with a distractingly high bum. He smiles back politely, the two not losing eye contact even when Mal is forced to look over her bare shoulder. “It’s the principal of the matter. You’re still his friend; I don’t expect you to fully understand.”

“Jesus, that ring of yours has been off for less than a day and you’re already eye-shagging college boys,” he laughs, sipping his own red wine.

“Why not,” she shrugs, “I was married to one for long enough, why change things now?”

With one hand in his pocket, Eames shakes his head and proceeds to scan the terrace. The venue is a well calculated mess of whites and baby pinks and powder greens. The lights overhead give the illusion of stars against the otherwise pitch black sky. Eames smiles as he watches the bride pose for a group photograph with her bridesmaids. Her puffy white gown effortlessly makes the hideous green and pink dresses look several shades shittier, but the maids smile nonetheless. Eames inwardly concedes that Ariadne has never looked as beautiful as she does right then, hair held up with white pearls, long white gloves oozing sophistication and maturity that he still finds hard to digest. Because to Eames, she’s still just his kid sister with braces and imaginary acne. The little girl who will remain a virgin regardless of how many nieces and nephews visit him for Christmas.

“I would be taking you home tonight and making sweet love to you if the universe paid any attention to me,” Eames nearly spits his wine when he feels Mal’s hand grabbing his ass none too gently. He barely manages to swallow before laughing.

“I think you’ve had enough of those,” he makes a reach for her glass. It’s a half-hearted attempt and she easily moves it away before downing its contents.

“Scratch that,” Mal says, looking through the sea of elegantly dressed guests in the hopes of spotting the very same waiter from before, “I wouldn’t take you home. You didn’t comment on my dress, you haven’t asked me to dance.” She looks him up and down before adding, “And you’re prettier than me.”

Eames throws his head back in laughter, eyes sparkling and doing worlds to prove Mal’s statement accurate. He’s a large man, even in tailored Armani he looks the type of man you’d find with a pair of gloves in a boxing ring. His smile is the only thing that makes him appear completely too approachable, even on the rare string of days that he neglects to shave.

“Oh mon Dieu,” she rolls her eyes and starts to walk away, “you even laugh with that sexy British accent.”

Eames’s quick reflexes allow him to grab hold of her arm before she can get too far. His flair makes the move seem like a smooth dance as he spins her around until they’re chest to chest. Mal is unable to hide her shock by the intimacy of the moment that can easily make anyone who looks their way assume they are a couple. Eames’s know it all grin makes her frown from his full pink lips to his eyes.

“You look abso-bloody-lutely gorgeous tonight,” he whispers above the music and the idle chatter, his nose almost brushing hers. And he really does mean it. Her long deep green evening gown is pulled together in all the right places, effortlessly extenuating the body she gyms to keep trim three times a week with Eames. Her short brunette hair falls in perfect waves against her shoulders, curls poetically dancing around her cheeks. “I was planning on saving the last dance for you, but I insist you refrain from telling Ariadne I said that. I do wish to remain her favorite brother.”

“You’re her only brother,” Mal finds her eyes trailing back to Eames’s lips despite her attempts not to look there.

“And believe me;” Eames decides to ignore her and continue, “I would be more than thrilled to go home with you if we weren’t both ogling the same waiter’s arse.”

“You’re terrible,” Mal chuckles, punching his chest once.

“You love it,” Eames grins back. He finds it harder to keep it up when he catches a glimpse of something in Mal’s eyes. The same thing that once almost ultimately destroyed their twelve year friendship. Eames loves to tease. He loves to tease Mal most. But he isn’t heartless. And after her love proclamation an invisible line had been drawn. One that wouldn’t allow him to sleep in the same bed with her, regardless of whether or not she was crying and needed a shoulder. One that stopped him from tagging along on shopping trips to pick out sexy lingerie for Valentine’s Day. Because to Eames, they are just best friends and that’s all they ever will be. And no amount of power in the world can erase the fact that they both know that it is worlds different to Mal.

Thoroughly grateful for the other man’s timing, Eames’s grin returns and he points none too subtly over her shoulder.

“Looks like our little display has made someone jealous,” Eames chuckles, letting her go. With a hand on her back, he steers Mal around, in the direction the waiter from earlier is starring at them, paying next to no attention to the couple he’s serving. “Do try getting him home before his curfew.”

Eames wags his brows after her as she makes her way through the crowd, giving him an air kiss over her shoulder before disappearing completely.

Definitely too much wine, he chuckles before looking down at his own glass, and clearly not enough.

He finishes his glass, making a quick dash for the bar when he hears his sister say, “Where’s Eames? We need Eames in these ones.”

Eames smiles, ducking out of eye site just in time when he notices it’s no longer just Ariadne looking around for him in the sea of guests. Even before fully waking up and eating his first strip of bacon, the video camera had been rolling and the flashes had been insistent. Eames has been a fan of the spotlight for many years in a completely subtle way, but even he had trouble faking a smile in front of the camera for twenty four hours straight.

Descending a few brick steps, and greeting several people on the way down, Eames heads towards the tent in the yard.

As he’d thought, the place is quieter, lighting and exaggerated décor no less. Few groups occupy the round tables, the slower and later guests enjoying the last few bites of what Eames is still convinced is the best four course meal he’s ever had. The bar in the corner is mostly empty and he makes his way towards it through the scattered tables.

Eames nearly trips over something, grateful that his wine glass is empty and no garments will suffer any fatalities.

“Shit,” he hears from under the table. It isn’t until a dark haired man crawls out from beneath the white table cloth that Eames realizes it had been the man’s foot that had nearly caused his fall. “I’m sorry, I’m just –”

Eames finds himself struggling to get the man’s gaze. His distracted movements exude panic as he crouches down, lifting the tablecloth of the next table and peeps in. Eames can tell the man barely even notices he has an audience and he smiles.

“Have you lost something?” Eames finally asks, unable to hide the amusement underlining his tone. If the man notices it seems as though he doesn’t care that his grief is causing a stranger delight. 

“Yeah,” he replies, not sparring Eames a glance as he continues his task. “Yeah, I have. It’s about this high, completely invaluable and just about the most fucking important thing to me in the world.”

“Sounds to me like you’d have to have been rather careless to lose such a thing, then,” Eames says.

The man straightens, back to Eames. Even without turning, Eames notices his shoulders square up, his hands ball into fists as he tilts his head slightly. Eames is shocked by the tone he’s met with next.

“I know,” it’s a soft admission and Eames feels something pull in his gut. All amusement falls away when he’s finally met with a pair of dark brown eyes. The soft frown holds no hostility; it almost appears natural on his youthful face. Even in the white button down shirt and black dress pants, black hair slicked back with adult-like precision, his ears are still a little too big and body a fraction to lithe to be anything older than twenty years. He’s all lines and sharp edges, unnaturally long limbs that Eames can’t help but wonder how they’d look like without the obstruction of clothing.

“Let me help you-”

“Dad, dad,” a little girl is running towards them. Eames’s shocked when the man in front of him drops to his knees. “Dad, look what I got.”

The little pixie’s utter amusement with the cupcake in her hand is completely short-lived the second she enters the man’s embrace. Eames still can’t grasp the concept of thinking about this boy as her father.

“Don’t you dare do that to me again,” he says firmly, holding her tiny shoulders so that she’s forced to look into his eyes. Hers are round and hazel and shocked. Pure innocence framed with thick dark lashes below thick dark brows that match the thick dark waves over her shoulders. Her pale cheeks quickly turn pink, even as her father pulls her in for another embrace. “I told you not to go running around. Daddy can’t play hide and seek now, baby. Daddy has to work.”

Eames hears a sweet muffled apology whispered into the man’s shoulder. He hears the man sigh and watches him stroke her hair, all while shaking his head. Eames feels a sense of warmth as he witnesses this, he also feels as though he’s intruding on something. When the man pulls away again, the little girl, in fact, does have tears in her eyes, and she wipes at them with a tiny hand as if she doesn’t want anyone to see.

“I’m sorry,” she says again and the ‘r’s sound like ‘w’s and Eames feels his chest tighten, more so when her father smiles sweetly and helps get the wetness off her face with the gentle stroke of his thumb. 

As he rises to his feet, it’s with his daughter in his arms. She instinctively wraps her arms around his neck, it’s a dance they’ve done a thousand times, Eames thinks. Exquisite monotony.

“What have you got there?” he asks his daughter, twisting around to see the pink and green and white cupcake almost staining the back of his white collar. “Sweetie, I told you not to take anything. We’re not guests here.”

“But the lady in the kitchen gave it to me,” she starts a high pitched defence that even her father looks softened to the core by it although his features remain firm.

“I assure you, nobody is going to be bothered,” Eames finally speaks. The look he gets from both of them makes it clear that he had been momentarily forgotten. It is also so similar that he is certain nobody could ever doubt their relation. “In fact, I believe there are little party gift bags for the little ones to take home. What’s your name, beautiful?”

Eames is fully aware of her father’s eyes on him as he smiles at the little girl. He catches her shy smile moments before she buries her face in her father’s shoulder. He sighs.

“It’s alright, baby,” his eyes never leave Eames, as if warning him to prove his next statement wrong, “he’s not a stranger danger.”

Eames raises both brows with an amused look on his face, even when the man rolls his eyes.

“I’m Bridget,” she beams, taking a shy peak from under her father’s chin.

“What a fine name, Bridget. Fit for a princess. I’m Eames,” he says, tilting his head in a gentlemanly manner. He doesn’t miss the way her father flinches through the short hand shake, during which she giggles uncontrollably. “Why don’t we see if we can get you one of those gift bags?”

“Thank you, Eames,” her father cuts in as he begins to turn away and leave. “But part of my work contract is not accepting gifts. And I don’t need the pretentious sap who paid for all this finding out I did and getting fired over it.”

“Aahhh,” Eames grins, speaking to the man’s back once again. “Well then it’s a bloody good thing I’m that pretentious sap, yeah?”

When the man turns back, there’s a hint of worry in his eyes. His lips part in what Eames assumes is an attempt at an apology, but he doesn’t let him get it out.

“Come, let’s see what we can get for the little madam,” Eames clamps his hand on the man’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper the next part, “and you, Sir, look like you could use a drink.”

*****

Arthur hasn’t always been like this, quite the contrary. There was a time when his hair was a bit too long and his wardrobe consisted of bright t-shirts that needed censorship and checked pants that literally went with nothing, and arguably could be to blame for the possibility of World War III. 

He was known for his smile, pined after for his dimples. He was mistaken for a girl far too many times. He had the ability to tell a joke with a straight face which made masses laugh all the more. He was the sunshine of his mother’s life and his father’s favorite creation.

Now, he is precision incarnate. There is a certain way everything must be done in order to prevent anything from happening. Because he knows that not everything that happens is for a reason. He hasn’t had any regrets in years, simply because he hasn’t afforded the universe permission to interrupt his regime.

Today, however, today it feels as though the universe is trying its luck once more. Because if Jason hadn’t crashed his bicycle into the back of that cab, and if his boss hadn’t asked him to take over for the injured man, and if it hadn’t been too short of notice for his babysitter, he wouldn’t have had to bring his daughter along with him. She wouldn’t be sitting on a stranger’s lap, and he wouldn’t be finding himself captivated by just how good the man was with her.

Arthur sips his whiskey, hiding his smile every time Eames looks up just in time to catch it. The grin he gets back is unnerving. There’s something about the curve of his lips and the flash in his eyes that makes Arthur certain that this is a very bad idea. But Bridget is having fun letting Eames color in her picture with her, and it’s been ages since he’s seen her that happy with a stranger. So as long as his eyes are on the two the entire time, he doesn’t mind sitting a safe distance away across the table. He’d been exiled to the spot by the both of them when he’d insisted that the grass should be green, not blue and the sun should be yellow, not purple. Arthur chuckles at the memory of his exasperated girl and the fake exasperation of the insanely gorgeous man with the stormy blue, green eyes and British accent.

Eames glances up at the sound and this time Arthur doesn’t bother to hide his amusement. His stomach heats up as they hold each other’s gaze, Eames holding up his end of the conversation with the girl on his lap the entire time.

“Oh dear, who’s child did you kidnap, Eames?” mock worry oozes from her voice as she smiles down at Bridget. Her blond hair matches that of the little girl on her hip and even from a distance, Arthur can see the similarity in their blue eyes.

“Commandeered, love,” Eames smiles at the lady fondly as she bends down to place a kiss on his cheek. He runs a hand over the blond girl’s hair and she giggles. “Say hello to Maggi, Bridget.”

Arthur smiles at the simple way the two girls immediately like each other, and Maggi shows Bridget her doll and Bridget tells Maggie she has pretty hair. The simplicity of youth, nothing at all like adulthood. He’s so caught in the moment that he barely notices his daughter taking the ladies hand. He doesn’t notice until they start walking away and instinct causes him to rise to his feet and go after his daughter. The hand on his chest prevents him from getting far.

“Oi, take it easy,” Eames is in front of him, grinning. “Relax, darling. All the children are watching Finding Nemo in the theatre, Bridget wanted to watch too. No big deal, she’ll be fine. Plenty of mums there.”

“You can’t just make decisions like that without me,” Arthur is still looking over Eames’s shoulder in the direction his daughter is heading.

“If you continue this obsessive neurotic parenting, she’ll be running away from you in no time,” Eames’s hand is still on Arthur’s chest. He doesn’t even flinch when Arthur’s features darken, eyes falling on him with coldness he can’t seem to contain.

“Who the fuck are you to tell me how to handle my own daughter?” Arthur steps closer, putting them almost nose to nose. “I’ve been doing this perfectly well for four years by myself. And what, you play with her for half an hour and make her laugh and suddenly you have a say in what she can and cannot do?”

“I bet she’s going to have to beg you to let her go to public school,” Eames smiles, squinting into Arthur’s eyes as if searching for the answer.

“And I’m not neurotic,” Arthur adds as if just recalling the accusation.

“I’m sorry, love, but I beg to differ,” Eames shrugs, “You’re the epitome of neurosis.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“I’ve been studying you.”

“Oh really?”

“Yes,” Eames says, placing his hands on Arthur’s shoulders before applying slight pressure to force them down, “and I have yet to see these hang loose. Plus, you’re far too pretty to be frowning all the time, didn’t mum ever tell you to be careful or your face will stay that way.”

“Is that all you gathered?” Arthur challenges.

“No,” Eames lets his hands run down Arthur’s arms, resting them gently on his biceps. Arthur tries to ignore how soothing the gesture is, how warm it makes him feel. “I also gathered that you’re frightened of far too many things and have absolutely no faith in others. My assumptions are that you got hurt; naturally I would have to assume it was by your own parents and now you’re overcompensating with your daughter. The fact that Bridget has no mother is another reason. You don’t want to be away from her for too long because you don’t want her to think you’ve left her too. You also have no imagination whatsoever; you probably don’t have a single missing sock in your drawer and judging by the way you haven’t pushed me away yet, I’d say you like being close to me.”

“Well, you know wh-”

“I like being close to you too, it’s alright, darling,” Eames interrupts and then nods towards the terrace. “Come and dance with me.”

Arthur looks at him incredulously. The sincerity in Eames’s eyes make Arthur actually chuckle.

“You can’t be serious,” he shook his head, “You just insulted me and now you’re asking me to dance.”

“I’m being perfectly serious, Arthur,” Eames soughts out Arthur’s eyes when they dropped to the ground as if he is trying to hide his smile. “Dance with me.”

“I don’t dance,” Arthur says, stepping away completely. He returns to his seat, not at all surprised when Eames takes the seat right beside his.

“Ah, darling,” Eames turns his chair, leaning down on his thighs and looking up intently as if studying Arthur further. His grin makes Arthur’s heart stutter. “You just gave me another thing to think about. You said you don’t dance, you never said you don’t dance with men.”

“Please stop calling me darling.” 

“Precious?”

“Darling is fine,” Arthur can’t help but chuckle at the way Eames is laughing.

“If you won’t dance, at least have dinner with me,” Eames says and the plea is almost too clear in his eyes. Arthur feels his cheeks flush. It’s been ages since he’s been in a situation like this, longer since he’s accepted. And then he remembers why he never does and he chuckles almost bitterly.

“I’ve been studying you too,” Arthur finally speaks before finishing off the rest of his whiskey. Eames’s brows shoot up as if he’s pleased by the revelation. “You’re charming and mildly pompous but manage to make it seem like an attractive sort of arrogance because of your charm. You probably always get what you want with that smile of yours and you think you know more than you actually do. You’re the type of guy who can afford anything, I mean, for God sake you have a theatre in your house.” Arthur stands up, stopping Eames from doing the same with a hand on his shoulder. “I’m the type of guy with a tiny two bedroom apartment, three part-time jobs and a daughter. It would never work.”

Arthur gives Eames a pat on his shoulder before walking away in search of his daughter.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aw, thanks for the kudos and comments guys. Will be sure to reply to all in a bit. 
> 
> Next chapter up tomorrow. Hope you eenjoy this one :-D

“There’s water everywhere, Arthur” he screams through the receiver, “I dunno what to do, I’m freaking out here.”

“Don’t freak out on me,” Arthur has the phone pinned between his ear and shoulder. The man on the other end of the line is so loud that he wishes he could hold it away, but he can’t while he’s stirring the spaghetti with one hand and holding an upside-down Bridget in the other arm. She giggles, reaching for the plastic tiles that become closer then further every time her father bounces up and down, delightfully oblivious to Arthur’s stress. “Just check again, make sure all the pipes are in.”

“The boss is gonna fire me, Arthur,” he’s no less calm and Arthur shakes his head when he hears a thud. He can picture the phone on the wet ground and a panicked Nash scrambling for it, “it’s a fucking mess, Arthur. You have to get down here.”

“I can’t, Nash,” Arthur closes the pot, places the wooden spoon between his teeth and opens the second pot on the two plate stove. The steam comes out harsher than expected and he’s forced to move away. The steam fills the tiny kitchen, fogging the windows. The steel handle on the lid of the pot is hotter than expected and Arthur is forced to drop it into the sink while the wooden spoon crashes to the ground. “Goddammit.”

There’s a knock on the door.

“You gotta be kidding me,” Arthur growls before yelling, “I’ll be right there.”

“We’ll be wight dere,” Bridget repeats, the shout slightly muffled against Arthur’s thigh.

Arthur turns the heat off on both plates before moving to dump the entire spaghetti pot into the sink. As he dashes for the door, he forgets to take off the My Little Pony apron that Bridget insists he wears so that they can match. He forgets to put his daughter right side up.

“Nash, it isn’t open heart surgery,” Arthur just barely remembers he is still in the middle of a conversation, “just a photo printer. If you stay calm, open up the machine and make sure all the taps are shut properly, you should be fine.”

“But- ho-the-come-”

“Nash,” Arthur frowns, reaching for the door handle. “I can’t hear you; you’re totally breaking up, man.”

“I-oss-wat-”

“Nash?” Arthur swings the door open, “can you hear me?”

“Arth-ease-my-” 

Arthur nearly drops the phone, he barely hears Bridget clapping her hands in excitement or her cheerful shrieks.

How can he when Eames is standing there, smiling, with a bottle of red wine in the one hand and a stuffed animal in the other.

*****

Arthur has a subtle tan. His black hair, olive skin and thin brown eyes almost make it look like he’s from some exotic island. This is why Eames is pleased with the blush that forces its way onto Arthur’s face, leaking down to his neck.

Unlike at the wedding, Arthur isn’t formal; his hair isn’t slicked back with far too much gel and his shoes aren’t too polished. Eames decides he likes this Arthur better, long strands of black hair falling carelessly into his face making him look completely illegal. His t-shirt is faded green, worn with age and torn a little on the sleeve. His sweats are grey, a contrast to the impossibly white socks. Eames has to smile at the pink apron that’s only just managed to wrap around his far too slender waist, making it look more like a skirt. He guesses Bridget had a lot to do with that.

Arthur flips Bridget over and places her down, barely managing to refrain from stopping her when she moves quickly to hug Eames’s legs. Eames chuckles.

“You came,” she looks up at him and he can’t help but smile.

“I promised I would. I take Spaghetti Sunday very seriously,” Eames pats her head before remembering the oversized stuffed unicorn in his hand. “I ran into this unicorn and it asked me if it could have a little girl. I dunno, do you want this one?” he poses the question to the toy.

Bridget giggles madly when Eames makes the unicorn nod its head eagerly. It’s in her tight embrace before he’s even fully let it go.

“What do you say, Bridge?” Arthur says monotonically, his eyes never leaving Eames, blush increasing by the second. Eames’s not so sure if it’s a good thing anymore.

“Thank you,” she spares him a two second glance before marvelling at her toy again.

“Go put it in your room,” Arthur orders, face unchanging.

Without protest, Bridget bounces off to her room and Eames watches her go, not too sure he wants to see the look on Arthur’s face now that their alone. He smiles nonetheless, holding up the bottle of wine.

Arthur narrows his eyes.

“Peace offering, darling,” Eames tries, “are you gonna let me in, then?”

“How did you know where I-”

“Your little princess invited me over for dinner,” Eames follows when all Arthur does is walk further into the house. He closes the door behind himself. “She was rather pleased with herself, knowing her own address off by heart, knowing the alphabet, being able to count to thirty. You might want to work on the last one though.”

Eames isn’t sure what to do as Arthur stalks into what looks like the kitchen. He hears the clatter of pots followed by a muffled curse as he looks around himself. The lounge is tiny, there’s a single couch in front of a large outdated television and an overgrown aerial. The wall unit takes up most of the space, the shelves lined with framed photographs. Most are of Bridget, some include Arthur as well. The curtains don’t match and the rugs are coming undone in the corners, but there’s warmth to the room that makes it all seem so intimate. Too intimate in fact. So much so that it once again feels as though he’s intruding.

Eames removes his jacket and places it carefully over the back of the couch. He loosens his tie and rolls up his sleeves, fully prepared to help Arthur with whatever fight he’s having in the kitchen.

“Let me help you with that,” Eames offers when he finds Arthur draining water from a pot into the sink without the use of a strainer. He’s sad to see the apron has been discarded and almost feels the need to report Arthur to Bridget.

“I can do it,” is Arthur’s short reply.

“No really,” Eames insists, “I have a neat trick I could-”

“Would you just stop it!” Eames is startled to a halt when Arthur slams the pot down in the sink. “Just stop. Fuck- what the fuck are you tryna gain out of this, Eames. How dare you use my daughter like that?”

“Arthur, darling,” Eames reaches a hand out but Arthur moves away to busy himself on the other side of the cramped kitchen. “She begged me to come-”

“She’s four years old, Eames,” Arthur turns on him exasperatedly. “Last week her hero was Winnie the Pooh, this week it’s Bob the Builder. She would’ve forgotten about you easily enough if you hadn’t shown up and brought a fucking unicorn and –”

Eames’s throat dries slightly when he sees more pain than anger in the fine lines of Arthur’s eyes. He hadn’t meant to cause the man grief. He’d asked himself all week why he was considering accepting the innocent, oblivious invitation. He’d come up with a few conclusions. He always kept his promise. He wanted to make a little girl happy. He was dying to see Arthur again. He wanted know what those lips felt like against his own. He wanted to hear what sounds Arthur would make when he kisses his way down Arthur’s long smooth neck. He wanted to spend the better part of the night picking at his brain. Finding out what makes him cry and what tickles him. What music he listens to and what school he went to.

He hadn’t wanted this.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking rationally.” Eames bows shortly before taking a step back towards the door. “Goodnight, Arthur.”

“You can’t leave now,” Arthur rolls his eyes as if it is the most obvious thing in the world, “she’ll be devastated.”

“A gentleman never stays for dinner unless he’s invited,” Eames shrugs, swallowing the lump of hope mixed with rejection that’s lodged in his throat. He can’t help the faint smirk that tugs at his lips. “I’m clearly uninvited.”

“Don’t make me do it,” Arthur sighs.

“I will never make you do anything you don’t want to do, darling,” Eames quips.

He is halfway through the kitchen door when he hears it, so faint that he’s not entirely sure he’s heard it correctly. He wants to hear it again either way.

“I beg your pardon?” Eames raises a brow, putting on his best oblivious look as he turns to Arthur.

“I said I-” Arthur sighs again. “Please stay for dinner.”

Eames grins widely. It’s a hollow victory, but a victory nonetheless.

“It will be my honor.”

*****

Arthur doesn’t know why he’s changed his shirt. It’s probably because the suit Eames arrived in looks as though it costs more than the couch he’s currently sitting on, watching cartoons with his daughter. He picks up a comb, feels stupid and then puts it down, opting to run his fingers through it instead. The jeans he picked out are too loose around his hips, a clear sign of how he’s lost more weight and the bags under his eyes are more prominent than they were the day before.

He feels completely horrible and continues to wonder why the man in his living room is trying so hard.

The man with disgracefully sexy eyes and a devastating smile. The man with broad shoulders and thighs so muscled that the edges are visible through his expensive pants. The man who can afford wine bottles sold with two zeros and probably drives a car worth money he could retire off of.

He realizes he’s been in the room starring at his reflection for too long when he returns to the lounge to find Eames and Bridget on the floor, setting up a board game. He chuckles, grateful that he doesn’t have to sit through the infantile farm animal board game this time around.

Bridget doesn’t notice her father as she animatedly explains the rules to Eames. Eames notices him though, and the smile he gives Arthur almost causes him to walk into the wall on his way to the kitchen. He catches himself in time, pretending not to notice Eames’s eyes drop to his butt.

Arthur wonders if he should stick to the traditional way of dining on Spaghetti Sunday, feeling self-conscious that Eames might find it ridiculous. Or primitive. Then he scolds himself for caring. He’s never really cared what people thought about him, why should it be any different now?

He pulls out a silver tray, wiping it off with a dishtowel. After stacking all the spaghetti onto the tray, he coats it with pasta sauce, the same recipe he’s been using since he was tall enough to reach the stove.

He grabs three forks and walks back into the lounge, almost doubling over in laughter when he sees Eames wearing a pig snout and little pink ears.

“Fancy a bit of bacon, Arthur?” Eames grins.

“The thought alone makes me consider going vegan,” Arthur replies shortly, not fully trusting his voice. There is no way he can think about nibbling Eames right now, not on Spaghetti Sunday. He hands a fork to both of the, the overly pink plastic one to Bridget before taking a spot on the floor beside the table, assuming the position.

Arthur decides to take the look on Eames’s face as amusement, not judgment as he pulls off the snout and brushes off the ears. Bridget is tugging him to the table dutifully.

“You have to do the oaf before we eat, Eames.” She says, as if it’s the most vital thing in the world.

“Oaf?” Eames raises a brow.

“She means oath,” Arthur tries to conceal a smile but fails.

“That’s what I said, oaf,” she pouts, getting laughs from both men.

Eames kneels opposite Arthur, eyeing him quizzically before he too holds up his fork so that all three points of their forks are touching, held up above the ridiculously large heap of spaghetti.

“Let us all close our eyes,” Bridget say with as much professionalism as a four year old can muster.

Eames chuckles and then receives a firm look from the little girl before he quickly shuts his eyes.

“Repeat after me,” Bridget begins, “I pwomise to eat you as much as I can, and leftovas will go to a homeless man.

Arthur opens his eyes to find Eames cracking one open. They both try their best not to laugh before Arthur recites the line and Eames mumbles along with him.

“I will be gwateful for evewy bite and will be thinking of you until next Sunday night.”

Arthur barely contains his chuckle through the line from the prominent way Eames’s voice is suddenly several pitches higher with restrained laughter. 

“You may now eat,” Bridget says, her fork in the pasta even before the two men reopen their eyes.

Arthur avoids Eames’s face altogether, he knows the man is having as much trouble looking natural as he is. So when Bridget announces that she’s going to get a juice box and she’s safely in the kitchen, both men break out laughing as silently as possible.

“Oath, Arthur?” Eames chuckles, “what the bloody hell was that, mate?”

“I had to think of something,” Arthur shrugs, “she wanted pasta every single damn night. So I told her that there is a Pasta King who lives in Pasta Land who needs us to use pasta sparingly otherwise his land will diminish.”

“Seems as though I misjudged you,” Eames is clutching his sides, “I do apologize, darling, I accused you of having no imagination. I was wrong.”

Arthur blushes; grinning down at the spaghetti he’s managed to twirl around his fork but neglected to eat.

“Do you really give the leftovers to the poor?” Eames asks once he’s managed to sober.

“Yeah,” Arthur shrugs. “Figured one good deed a week’s better than none, right? However small it may be. I want her to grow up understanding that. Believing in generosity. 

“You are an incredibly beautiful man, Arthur,” he says simply, but the amount of certainty in his eyes throw Arthur off completely.

It wasn’t just an admission to his admiration for Arthur’s ethics, it was way more. And Arthur knows he’s taking it in the exact context that Eames meant for it to be delivered in. You’re an incredibly beautiful man and I want you. I wanted you at the wedding. I want you right now, right here. I’ve been thinking about you all week. I’ve thought about you with my hand around my cock. I couldn’t concentrate in boardroom meetings because I kept thinking about your lips. And how close we were. And how close we can be if you just let down your guard.

Arthur lets out the breath he’s been holding when Bridget returns, offering Eames a juice box. God, Arthur thinks, even his eyes have a sexy British accent. He shakes his head as if that will do anything to erase the picture from his mind. The thought of being underneath Eames, panting for air, clinging to his body is completely disallowed on Spaghetti Sunday. He rises to his feet and takes the juice box from Bridget’s hand, knowing full well that Eames will be too polite to decline.

“No, sweetie,” he retreats to the kitchen, “the adults are gonna drink ‘grownup juice’.

After that look Eames gave hime, Arthur is certain he needs a glass of wine.  
*****

“I can see why Bridget wanted that every night,” Eames rubs a hand over his stomach, “bloody hell, I’m willing to give my house away for those leftovers,”

Although he can’t hear it, Eames sees the vibration of Arthur’s shoulders and knows that he’s chuckling. He smiles, liking the way the wine has loosened the naturally stiff pose Arthur wears. Eames doesn’t even feel pitiful for counting the number of times Arthur touched his arm that night.

“Need some help there, love?” Eames walks over to the sink either way and peers over Arthur’s shoulder as he rinses off the tray in shallow soapy water. When Arthur turns his head, their faces are so close that their lips nearly brush.

“I should tuck Bridget in, it’s passed her bedtime,” Arthur’s tiny smirk sends all sorts of hope and arousal and need to his groin and he can feel his body happily react to all of it. “And you should be heading home.”

Hope dies further when Arthur turns completely, side stepping Eames while shaking his hands to dry them.

Eames curses inwardly, obediently following Arthur into the lounge.

“Bedtime,” is all Arthur has to say before Bridget is tiredly getting to her feet and raising her arms, ready for her father to pick her up. Eames is met with that feeling again, what was it, exquisite monotony? “Say goodnight to, Uncle Eames.”

“Thank you for coming,” she says, looking sad that the night is over as she lays her head on her father’s shoulder.

“Thank you for having me, princess,” Eames says, picking up his jacket, and then remembers, “speaking of princesses, I almost forgot.” He digs into his jacket pocket and pulls out two dark navy elegant envelopes with silky gold string holding them closed. “I’m hosting a gala at my house next weekend, raising money for multiple charities. Anyway, everyone dresses all fancy and wear masks and there’s dancing-”

“Thank you and goodnight,” Arthur takes both invitations when Bridget eagerly makes a reach for one.

“Can we go, daddy?” she still tries to grab an invitation while Arthur calmly holds it out of her reach, “daddy, can we go, I wanna go.”

“Goodnight, Eames,” Arthur repeats when Eames stops just short of the door to look back. Eames sighs, nodding before letting himself out.


	3. Chapter 3

“Who the hell’s idea was it for us to come here instead of going to the usual place?”

“Mine,” Mal owns it matter-of-factly, eyeing down the greying man with not an ounce of apprehension. “I hear they make a great steak.”

“And have terrible service,” the blue eyed man makes a show of looking around, “where the hell is our waiter. We ordered wine ages ago.”

“For goodness sake, Robert” another man sighs, “we’re not here to crit the restaurant; we’re here to discuss the merger with L.D.P.”

“Yes, but on the company’s account,” Mal grins, continuing scanning through the menu as if the rest of the men in suits around the table don’t even exist, “I could be home right now watching my stories and eating ice-cream, but instead I’m forced to spend the night here with you boring men. Not you, Eames.”

Eames looks at her, completely confused as to why she’s patting his hand. He was too busy thinking about the previous night. About Arthur’s laugh, the handful of times he did. The way Arthur’s smile changed entirely when he looked at his daughter. It was a look of unconditional love, unreserved admiration. He wondered what it would feel like to be on the receiving end of those dimples first thing in the morning, last thing at night. Every bloody moment of every bloody day. 

“Where were you just now?” Mal is eyeing him suspiciously and he can’t help the blush that creeps up to his face. Mal knows him well enough for it to effortlessly give him away.

“Not now, Mal,” Eames offers her a warning smile as he motions to the other men around the table with a subtle flick of his head. 

“We’ll use code words, they’ll never catch on,” she waves her hand dismissively at their company who seem too engrossed in their own conversations to even notice her attempt at secrecy. “Did you put the sausage in the bun last night?”

Eames drops his head, muffling his laughter into the palm of his hand, trying desperately to hide his flush.

“You did, didn’t you?” Mal is frantically tugging his arm to pry his hand away from his mouth so that he can reply, “you put your beef in someone’s taco. Who was it? Speak Eames.”

“Hello, my name is Arthur and I’ll be your waiter tonight.”

Eames’s eyes go wide, head snapping up at the name, heart slamming at the voice, and sure enough the very man he’d been sharing pasta with the night before is standing right there. Hair slicked back and not a piece of clothing out of place as he opens a bottle of wine.

“It’s about damn time,” Robert remarks above the suddenly quieter chatter at the table. “Were you crushing the grapes?”

Eames flinches, but admires the way Arthur’s face remains completely impassive. It’s almost as if his face lacks any muscles whatsoever and he manages to keep his tone calm when he speaks.

“I do apologize, sir,” he pours wine and speaks at the same time, “the waiter who seated you, his shift ended. I was not informed that I was to take over this table until now. I really am –”

“Yeah, I’ll have the special,” Robert interrupts, tossing his menu aside, “provided you don’t have to slaughter the damn cow. Medium rare”

“Okay, sir,” Eames notices Arthur’s jaw clench, the only sign of emotion as he continues to fill up wine glasses. He has to refrain from kicking Robert under the table. Because Arthur only has two hands and surely can’t pour wine and take orders at the same time.

“How’s the steak, handsome?” Mal asks and Eames swallows a groan. He’d recognize that flirtatious tone anywhere.

“Honestly?” Arthur actually cracks a tiny smile and Eames is sure it’s because he’s relieved to find at least one person at the table willing to be nice to him. “The chef who makes the best steak is off tonight. But the one we do have makes incredible Paella. I’m pretty sure you’d find it-”

Arthur stops mid-sentence when his eyes dart to the familiar man beside the brunette lady. They stare at each other for a moment, Eames picking up on the pure shock in Arthur’s otherwise unchanging eyes. Then they go blank and his poker face returns.

“-delicious.”

“Cute and honest,” Mal grins. “A rarity. It’s my pleasure to be waited by you.”

“I’m certain it will be my pleasure waiting you,” Arthur nods politely. “What would the madam like to order this evening?”

“I’ll tell you what,” Mal leans in and reads the tag on his shirt, “I’ll have the Paella, Arthur.”

*****

Arthur has never been wealthy.

He grew up in a three bedroom home with an average sized lounge, decent kitchen, two bathrooms and a plastic pool in the small yard out back. His playtime consisted of challenging the sprinklers on warmer days with the neighborhood children his age. They occupied themselves by finding trails through woods they were warned against venturing into and making club houses out of abandoned sheds.

Arthur was an intelligent young man and school was a breeze. It was a cross between evading detention with his cunning wit and receiving numerous certificates for his participation in extramural activities. The school was mediocre; its reputation for being overpopulated with lower-middle class made it frowned upon. But his father was a used car salesman for a deteriorating enterprise and his mother was a day-care guardian and neither job could put him into a school that could afford their own flags and blazers.

Either way, Arthur had always been content with what he had because he didn’t know any other way of living. It was later that he realized that growing up had a cruel way of presenting the real world to you in a completely unforgiving way. 

When Arthur was finally old enough to fully understand the connotation of class, he finally realized why his family had never been able to eat at that restaurant or shop at that mall or watch that show. Then he started to notice how the people, who could, acted a certain way. And after his first encounter with a group of boys from Bonnie Doon, boys who had flashy cars and expensive clothing and found it necessary to stop what they were doing to pick on the skinny kid on a red bicycle, Arthur decided then and there that he didn’t care much for rich people at all. 

Arthur shrugs his jacket on, feeling more than physically exhausted from the last table he waited tonight. No matter how many times he’d begged the manager to assign a different waiter to table 14, his boss had declined.

“They’ve already changed waiters once, Arthur,” Peter had said, marching through the busy kitchen with an exasperated Arthur on his heel.

“You don’t understand, Mr. Browning-”

“No, you don’t understand.” Peter had turned on him. “ Do you have any idea who those people are. They are top ambassadors of the Wilkin’s Court of Justice. You should feel privileged serving them. Now whatever personal apprehension you’re dealing with, suck it up and be professional. I don’t care if they ask you to wear a tutu and do the cancan; you will do it if you value your job.”

Arthur had considered walking then, but as usual, all it took was one thought of Bridget and her next meal and the roof over her head for him to be back on the floor. So he tolerated it and it got harder as the night went on. Even before the –could have been handsome if he wasn’t a prick- man had implied that he was stupid and enquired what level of education he had. Even before all Eames had done was ask Robert if ‘that was really necessary’. It didn’t matter. Eames didn’t owe him anything. Eames didn’t have to stick up for him. So Arthur wonders why it hurts so much that he didn’t.

Arthur half-heartedly waves the last of his colleagues goodbye as he steps out into the cold night. He’s grateful that the few that don’t have cars are walking in the opposite direction towards the bus stop further north. The silence gives him time to think as he takes one purposeful step after the other in the immaculate streets.

Arthur makes it a block away from the restaurant, robotically following each streetlight to the next until he’s startled to a halt. The horn is barely touched, but in the depths of the thought maze he’d been creating in his head, the sound is piercing enough to shake him.

“Darling,” he hears Eames more than sees him in the dark shelter of the shiny, black Mercedes Benz, “let me give you a ride home.”

Never before has an endearment or gesture of kindness infuriated Arthur more than it does right then. He’s about to express the rage surging through his veins until he realizes that it’s also heating up his chest. The mere fact that he’s trying to convince himself that he feels nothing means there is a reason he needs convincing in the first place. His head starts to pound harder but is still no match for the dull ache gripping his heart. Eames should have no effect on any organ in his chest.

Arthur walks away, lengthy limbs allowing him to manage longer and faster strides.

He hears the engine’s low hum silence, he hears his name being called, he hears the slamming of a car door and fast approaching echoes of expensive shoes hitting wet tar. Arthur responds to none of it.

“Arthur,” Eames’s voice is a mixture of authority and panic as he places a hand on Arthur’s shoulder.

“Feels good being ignored, doesn’t it,” Arthur shrugs out of his grasp, not sparring him a glance as he continues to march down the sidewalk. He’s shocked by his own choice of words, how they just materialized out of nowhere as if the thought had been bubbling at the surface but he’d been too busy stubbornly trying to ignore it to come to terms with what was really upsetting him. 

“Now, hold on, love,” Arthur tries not to notice how much thicker Eames’s accent sounds right then, echoing against the temporarily abandoned buildings and empty roads. “That was a slightly multifaceted situation I was in, yeah.”

“Let me uncomplicated it for you,” Arthur scoffs dryly, “you were too embarrassed to let your egotistical, snooty, highbred lawyer colleagues know that you have any association with me whatsoever. Because I’m a nobody and the mere thought that we might be friends would ultimately drop your ranking points a couple too many notches.”

“It isn’t like that, Arthur,” Eames’s grip is firmer on Arthur’s arm, managing to stop him completely, only because Arthur was so distracted that he realizes he’s missed his turn in his haste to get away from Eames. “I didn’t mean to hurt you; I just don’t need them knowing details of my personal life. I can barely stand them all as is. Apart from Mal, who’s already named the first child you two are going to have together, by the way.”

Arthur glares at Eames, displaying just how unimpressed he is that the larger man can’t keep a conversation completely serious. Even when it is a heated one. Eames has the decency to appear apologetic or the charm to fake it. Either way, Arthur doesn’t walk away when Eames lets his arm go.

“Arthur,” Eames sighs, “You may not believe me, but I was also protecting you. You have no idea how much they would’ve ripped you to shreds if they knew we knew each other on a more personal level. Robert was already bloody harsh and I will apologize for him and avenge you by putting something questionable in his coffee tomorrow. But if anyone had known they would have been far less kind. Questions and judgment and… they’re lawyers; need I say more, love?”

“Yeah, and you’re one of them,” Arthur frowns; hating that Eames’s reasoning actually makes sense. Hating that it hurts no less. “Like I said the first night we met, this will never work.”

“You don’t know that.”

“Eames,” Arthur sighs, because he actually sees something akin to pain in Eames’s eyes, “I’m never going to change. I’m not going to spontaneously sprout an estate worth more than the town’s population’s income combined, or drive fancy cars and go to galas. I’m not going to change for you.”

“I’m not asking you to change, Arthur,” Eames grins a little. “I like the Arthur in worn-out threads and sweatpants that leave hardly anything to the imagination, I should add. You can’t keep using the fact that I have money as an excuse not to give me a chance, Darling. You think I’m not confused myself, bloody Lord I am, but I’m not running away from this. The fact that I had more fun last night, sharing spaghetti and wearing pig snouts and doing stupid bloody oaths with you and your daughter… the fact that that was the most fun I’ve had in years must mean something, Arthur.”

Arthur’s self-preservation disallows him to fully believe everything Eames is saying to him even though he so badly wants to. His emotional army is well equipped and meticulously trained for just such situations. Such men like Eames who know exactly the right things to say and the right times to say them.

“Go on a date with me,” Eames whispers, having stepped closer without Arthur realizing. “Spend a night with me. And before you say anything, the truth is, yes. I would like nothing more than to get you naked in my bed. But that’s not what I’m asking for. I just want one utterly platonic night where you can focus on something other than your worries. You might even find less to worry about.”

“But, Bridget-”

“Ah,” Eames grins, looking thoroughly pleased with himself. “I’ve sorted that out. Apparently Maggi from the wedding can’t stop talking about Bridget and is dying for a little sleepover. It’s rather precious really, Maggi’s mum says she never has any of her friends over, doesn’t like most of them really. But Bridget is different because-”

“She’s poor?” Arthur looks generally convinced that that’s the exact statement that Eames is tiptoeing around.

“I was going to say well-brought up,” Eames’s voice is darker as if he’s finally getting annoyed by Arthur’s obstinacy. “And she’s polite and she shares and she laughs at pretty much everything which makes her oodles of fun to be around. I assure you Arthur, Maggi’s mum will keep an eye on them at all times, she’s a wonderf-”

“Okay,” Arthur nods, finding a spot on Eames’s shirt and keeping his eyes there because he’s certain they will betray him.

“Yeah?” he can hear the amusement in Eames’s voice and can’t help but smile.

“Are you giving me room to change my mind?” Arthur looks up finally and his throat closes up at the site of the man in front of him. He wonders why on earth someone like Eames is making such an effort and it almost feels as though Eames is reading his mind.

“Not on your life, Arthur,” Eames chuckles. “Let’s get you home, yeah?”

Arthur thinks about it for a moment, even though he knows he’ll most certainly be choosing a nice warm drive home as opposed to walking several blocks in the cold. He just enjoys the look on Eames’s face a bit too much. The look he makes when he raises both brows waiting for an answer, causing lines to crease his forehead.

Arthur finally chuckles and walks back in the direction of Eames’s car. He can feel Eames two steps behind him and he rolls his eyes, knowing exactly why he doesn’t bother to catch up.

*****

“I swear,” Arthur chuckles, “I’m fine.”

“I’m sorry, Arthur, but I’m a man of my word,” Eames says as they turn to climb the third and last flight of stairs in the narrow stairwell. “If I say I’m going to get you home safely, I shall not rest until I do. That kitten outside looked fully prepared to attack.” 

Eames feels a comfortable sort of warmth spread throughout his chest when Arthur chuckles again. Arthur will forever remain enigmatic, Eames is convinced of this. Because the man’s eyes have several different shades of brown and every time he thinks he’s studied them all, a new shade explodes in the heat of battle or during an impromptu smile. Even so, he’s almost certain that he’s managing to break down some of Arthur’s walls, and the thought alone is both exciting and terrifying at the same time.

He’s also fully aware that Arthur is unpredictable, so he decides to take advantage of this side of the dark haired man. As Arthur gradually slows down, Eames feels brave enough the reach up and grab his narrow hips, urging Arthur to move faster with the gentlest of pushes. He’s rewarded with a warning grin over Arthur’s shoulder, thoroughly grateful that he doesn’t even attempt to move his hands away. Not even when they reach the top of the stairs and Arthur fiddles in his jacket pockets in search of the keys.

Arthur slips the keys in the keyhole, and then as if just remembering that he still has a man attached to him, he turns in Eames’s arms, bringing them face to face. Eames is shocked by the lazy grin on Arthur’s face, almost as much as he is by the fact that Arthur doesn’t object when he moves closer still, lining their hips. With one hand still on the key in the door, Eames feels Arthur’s other tentatively slide up his arm and rest on his bicep.

“You can’t come in, Eames,” Arthur whispers, slightly sleepy and half husky and Eames is convinced that fatigue is the best color he’s ever seen on Arthur. 

“Not even for a nightcap, darling?” Eames almost thinks Arthur’s eyes are closed until he notices the small slits have fallen and settled on his lips. Arthur’s own are parted ever so slightly, yet still way too much and Eames feels his pants become terribly uncomfortable as his heart speeds up. As Arthur shakes his head, Eames moves his hands from Arthur’s unbelievable hips, one circling his waist and the other moving to the expanse of skin he’s able to find on his throat. “Do it, Arthur, I dare you.”

And Eames sighs against Arthur’s lips, insanely pleased by the fact that he doesn’t have to taunt Arthur twice. And Arthur’s lips are soft and dangerous, his tongue tentative as it swipes over his bottom lip. It’s taking every ounce of Eames’s willpower not to push forward, not to devour Arthur’s mouth and suck his neck and rock his hips, because he wants Arthur to control this. He want’s Arthur to set the pace, so when he feels Arthur’s hand in his hair, forcing him forward, he nearly growls with want as both men feverishly deepen the kiss.

Eames winces in pain when Arthur’s teeth bite down, but he can hardly blame the man since the door is suddenly being wrestled open from the other side. Eames sees worry in Arthur’s eyes as Arthur brushes his finger over his wounded bottom lip, snapping it away just as the front door swings open.

The girl on the other side of the threshold is wearing a mask of freckles, hair pulled back in a ponytail that resembles cotton candy. She has a smile that’s thoroughly contagious and Eames finds himself grinning back despite the fact that he’s moments away from splitting a seam in his pants.

“I thought I heard something,” she raises a brow for a second when she notices the bunch of keys just dangling in the keyhole, “was it stuck? It’s happened to me before.”

“No AJ,” Arthur’s face is flushed a solid shade of red and Eames is convinced that the girl is either really dense or pretending not to notice. He goes with the latter since he’s certain Arthur would never have anyone less than perfect looking after Bridget. “I was just wishing Eames here a goodnight.”

“Oh my gosh,” she almost squeals and Eames feels the need to back away when she moves towards him. He’s thoroughly grateful when she only pulls his hand in for a good shake because it looked as though she’d been aiming for a hug. “Bridget can’t stop talking about you; it feels like I know you already.” She gasps as if she just remembers, “Please do the accent.”

Eames looks to Arthur for help, but he’s too busy muffling a laugh into the back of his hand.

“I’m not so sure how much of an accent it is as opposed to the way I just speak, really?” Eames said carefully, getting warier the happier she looks at the end of each syllable.

“Oh, you nailed it,” she does an air pump with both fists. Eames is beginning to seriously doubt Arthur’s judge of character. “She did you no justice in the looks department though; she said you have big ears and I was expecting, like, Dumbo incarnate. But wow, you’re gorgeous. Isn’t he gorgeous, Arthur?”

“AJ,” Arthur places a hand on her shoulder and steers her back into the apartment, “why don’t you go and double check if Bridget’s asleep and I can finish off saying goodbye to my friend.”

“Okay, but…oh?” her thoughtful face turns into an all knowing one and her next smile reveals her braces as she extends the word, “Oh. I hear you loud and clear. Don’t let me stop ya. Just get in there and-”

“AJ,” Arthur chuckles and its Eames’s turn to blush madly.

“Okay, can I just,” she extends a hand to Eames and shakes it meaningfully. Her face sort of changes and she actually looks a lot older than she seemed seconds ago. Almost as if she had just been teasing the entire time. “Goodnight Eames. Bridget was right, you do make Arthur smile.”

“Goodnight… AJ,” Eames says a few seconds too late since she’s already in the apartment and the door is already shut. 

Eames only realizes he’s still starring at the door when he feels familiar fingertips press against his lips.

“Are you hurt?” Arthur’s voice is soft. Even the concern in his tone can’t mask the amusement etching his tired eyes.

“If I say yes, will you kiss it better?” Eames raises a brown, grinning when Arthur rolls his eyes.

“Goodnight, Eames.” Arthur says, opening the door almost reluctantly.

“We’re still on for Friday, then?”

“Goodnight,” Arthur says before shutting the door.

And it really doesn’t matter to Eames that the nights always seem to end like this. Because the smile on Arthur’s face before the door snaps shut suggests that one day Arthur might be saying those words to his face moments before drifting off to sleep in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, for this one, I could only think of the daughter from Spanglish as AJ.... love that bubble chick. Hope you enjoyed.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hmmm.... I wasn't gonna post on a Sunday because its my day of rest and... pfft, I was gonna post anyway because you lot are too awesome lol. Hope you enjoy this chapter. :-)

Before he’d left, he’d been certain he looked good enough. It had been ages since he’d dressed up for a date and left home smiling, because AJ couldn’t wipe that longing look off her face as she whined about how unfair it was that all the good ones were gay. And Bridget kept stating that she has the most handsomest daddy in the universe. 

Arthur had seen Eames in nothing but well-tailored, portentously sown suits since day one, and even he was convinced that his attire could level up to Eames’s ceaseless pomposity. He was convinced that wherever Eames was taking him, none of the other snooty patrons would recognize that he’d bought his deep grey suit on sale, the crisp white shirt from the shop across the street and the waistcoat from a vendor on his way back home in the dodgier side of town. 

He’d noticed the cab driver giving him a once over when he’d mentioned his destination, a Swiss restaurant he’d never heard of with a name that oozed class. He’d assumed the cab driver had never picked up anybody as well put together in an area like his, cologne effortlessly covering the less appealing smells in the vehicle within seconds. 

He’d checked his watch to make sure he wasn’t going to be late when the drive began to take longer than expected. It looked heavy but was light around his wrist, and the hands behind the mock glass revealed he was right on time; just as the cab began to halt. 

Arthur is certain he’s close to as perfectly ready than he’ll ever be, until he exits the cab.

He realizes he hasn’t been paying much attention to much else apart from the slamming of his heart or the loose thread on his inseam that threatens to give his cheapness away.

None of it seems to matter when he finds himself on the sidewalk, a few steps away from a waiting Eames, who hasn’t noticed him yet. It can’t be Eames; he squints on the well-lit pavement, only it is.

Only it isn’t.

Eames finally looks in his direction; the brief smile that had instantly bloomed disappears the second he looks over Arthur.

Arthur feels his face heat up as Eames snaps out of whatever trance he was in, the dumbfounded look being replaced by a completely suggestive grin. Arthur can’t return it, not when Eames is walking towards him in a well fitted t-shirt, neck line low enough to reveal some of the dark hair on his chest, short sleeves unable to hide the edges of ink injected into his large right bicep. Not when Eames is chuckling, pulling both hands out of scruffy tight blue jean pockets , hands swinging loosely at his sides revealing black rubber bangles and what looks like some terrible tribal bracelets around both wrists.

Not when Eames is close enough for Arthur to notice the scratches on Eames’s white sneakers, a perfect contrast to his own ridiculously shiny black shoes.

“What’s a fancy bird like you doing in a place like this?” Eames’s accent sounds thicker when his hair is a well calculated mess. There’s no way he did more than run his fingers through it after stepping out of the shower. Arthur can smell the shower gel, the aftershave, gets a lesser whiff of nicotine when Eames is suddenly too close. Arthur feels Eames hands on his hips, a fleeting touch as the man looks him over.

“I thought-”

“I know perfectly well what you thought, darling,” Eames interrupts. “And I think it’s thoroughly adorable that you got all dressed up for me.” 

“I think it’s insulting that you dressed down,” Arthur frowns, feeling his frustration build at the sound of Eames’s laughter.

“Take a look around, Arthur,” Eames nods his head over his shoulder, “unless you consider me powerful enough to make an entire pub dress down for you, I suggest you reconsider the accusation.”

Arthur unintentionally does just that, groaning as he takes in his surroundings. The pub is the only building alive in the otherwise average looking street. Arthur knows he’s been here before, too brief to remember the names of any shop but often enough to feel déjà vu. When Eames had told him to meet him at die Herren Garten in a terrible attempt at what sounded slightly like a Dutch accent, he’d been expecting high walls and hanging chandeliers and expensive whiskey. Not the bulky log cabin with orange lights, the roar from inside suggesting that it was packed with men who didn’t practice proper etiquette in public places. This was not at all what he’d expected; this was not at all like Eames.

A new wave of anger surfaces when he realizes that Eames probably picked the place because he was trying to stoop down to his level. He was trying to make him comfortable because he obviously couldn’t cope with the level of sophistication Eames rubs shoulders with daily.

“I’m overdressed,” Arthur doesn’t know why he said that, and backs away from Eames. “This was a bad idea. This,” he waves a hand between the two of them, “is a bad idea.”

“Arthur,” Eames stands beside him, eyes fixed on his face as Arthur looks up and down the partially empty street. He needs a cab. “I know what you are thinking and I think that’s terribly judgmental of you. I’m disappointed in you.”

“You’re disappointed in me?” Arthur scoffs, feeling heat rise. “And I suppose I’m supposed to be happy that you just assumed I – I don’t even know why I bothered. Of course this is all I’m worth to you.” 

“The more you open your mouth, the further you disappoint me, darling.”

Arthur scoffs, praying that the lights that just turned into their street belong to a cab.

“If you must know, I come here all the time,” Eames takes hold of Arthur’s elbow, urging him to look at him. Arthur doesn’t obey. “It is equally insulting that you’d assume I constantly have a gold stick up my arse. You’re merely portraying how shallow you are. When you look at me you just see money, you’re not giving me a chance beyond that.”

Arthur is frowning, and not only because the car that passes isn’t a cab.

“Come on, Arthur,” Eames lets go, stepping closer until their shoulders are touching and they’re staring awkwardly into the street. “Even I get sick of my world sometimes, I’d go out of my mind if I had to do it twenty-four seven. This is a nice pub, yeah. The blokes in it are right friendly and it also reminds me of my three years of boarding school in Switzerland. There was a crack in the wall of a nearby tavern, me and my mates used to sneak in and drink whatever beer the drunken idiots where stupid enough to leave unattended. Got my first hangover at twelve.”

“You’ve never been to Switzerland,” Arthur rolls his eyes. There’s a whisper of a smile touching his lips and even he can feel himself less eager to hail a cab.

“That’s my point, Arthur,” Eames nudges him lightly; “there’s a lot you don’t know about me.”

“Prove it,” Arthur says, finally meeting Eames’s eyes with a childish sort of challenge. “three years in Switzerland, say something… Swiss.

Eames chuckles and shrugs, wetting his lower lip before looking Arthur over.

“Sie sehen absolut shon heute abend,” Eames grins.

“What does that mean?” Arthur raises a brow.

“It means, it’s colder than an Eskimo’s arse out here and I don’t have a jacket so may you please stop being such a prat and can we go in and get ourselves a few too many drinks and have filthy sex afterwards.”

Arthur’s laughing before Eames even finishes and Eames joins him easily.

“Such an efficient language,” Arthur sobers, hating how this always seems to happen with Eames. How his mood can change so quickly so many times. How decisions end up being made for him with the power of Eames’s complete charm. “That still doesn’t prove anything. Just proves that you know how to use Google Translate.”

“Yeah?” Eames’s brows shoot up as if he’s shocked dearly by the fact that Arthur still doubts him. “Come inside, I’ll tell you all about it. Every detail, I’ll even show you a coupla scars.”

Arthur looks down at himself. “But I’m dressed-”

“You look fine, darling,” Eames smiles sweetly. So sweetly that Arthur almost believes him. Arthur feels Eames’s hand brush against his arm before he begins to walk away, “come on then.”

Arthur hesitates a moment before he sighs and follows.

*****  
Arthur’s first sign that Eames hadn’t been lying, came the second the bartender shouted his name, nearly tipping a patron’s carelessly placed pitch of beer in his haste to get an arm around the larger Brit’s shoulder. The crowd’s unified appreciation for Eames’s presence was Arthur’s second clue. The fact that there was a beer in Eames’s hand before even reaching the bar had Arthur eyeing Eames apologetically though he refused to says it out loud.

“No, you’ve got it all wrong, mate,” the man beside Arthur has his thick arm draped around Arthur’s shoulder. His breath is still sour and his beard scratches Arthur whenever he gets too close, but Arthur’s long since felt any form of irritation. The greying man’s accent is completely fake; slipping further with each sip of whiskey, but Arthur doesn’t point this out to him. “If two mind readers read each other’s minds, they wouldn’t be reading anything at all.”

“I’m afraid that’s where you’re wrong, Nigel,” Arthur says, not quite sure if that is in fact the man’s name or not. If it isn’t, it ought to be, Arthur thinks. He raises his hand to silence the rowdy mix of agreements and protests from the small group of men surrounding his table. He can’t quite blame his new fan club on anyone but Eames who’d animatedly introduced him to the pub as Arthur Einstein, a walking descendant of Sir Albert himself. “If two mind readers read each other’s minds,” Arthur pauses, leaning in for dramatic effect. Loving the way the rest of the men subconsciously do the same. “-they would be reading their own. So what if we are all just a bunch of mind readers? How do you know what you’re thinking now are not my thoughts?”

There was a moment of silence which was carried by the soft, welcoming jingle of what Arthur could only assume was an old Irish melody. 

“What a load of cack!” one of the younger men breaks the silence, paving way to an onslaught of laughter. “If that were the case, you’d be thinking yourself an utter twat.”

Arthur laughs too as some of the guys take to throwing nuts at him. A few potato chips land on his lap as well. He doesn’t mind that his rolled up sleeves are slightly damp from the glass of beer that tipped during his earlier arm wrestle. He doesn’t mind that Nigel further ruffles his hair, something he’s noticed they all do whenever someone says something wise or incredibly funny. Or even just plain stupid. Even with his shirt slightly unbuttoned and half tucked, he still looks worlds better than the mix of ugly brown jackets and tacky barrettes. He also knows that it’s merely for show, and if he passed any one of them on a Tuesday morning, the tables would completely be turned. As he laughs along with them, he decides not to care, not right then. Not when he feels so utterly welcome in such a strange place.

Arthur still isn’t quite sure what the theme of the pub is. It’s an odd recreation of an Old English pub mixed with Celtic décor and mock barrels for tables. There are wooden wheels on walls and he could’ve sworn he’d seen some hay in the corner earlier. But whatever it was meant to be, it is warm and Arthur decides he likes it.

“Give us another one, then,” comes a shout from the crowd and the pats on his back make him certain it’s directed at him, even though a few other men engage in their own private conversations. A shot of whiskey is placed in front of Arthur and he’s not quite sure where it’s come from, but he sips it anyway.

“Possibly one for an audience who’ve actually passed the second grade,” comes another jibe from the lively crowd.

Arthur joins in the unspoken ritual, tossing peanuts at the laughing man who dodges the tiny bullets half-heartedly.

“Okay, okay, listen up,” Arthur finishes his whiskey, biting back the burn as he leans in purposefully once again. “What’s the only sure way in the world to keep a man in suspense?”

Arthur looks around at his baffled audience; painfully aware of how bad the joke is. Possibly the worst he could have brought up now. Thoroughly aware that somebody would have figured it out by now if they’re minds weren’t all jointly impaired. 

“Out with it then,” Nigel encourages Arthur after some pointless whispers and stupid suggestions.

“Nah, I think I’ll tell you guys later,” Arthur counts to three, taking in the frowns before he’s showered with yet more peanuts. It’s so painfully easy laughing with these men, Arthur thinks

“Shut it you lot,” Arthur’s suddenly being hauled to his shockingly unsteady feet, arms being thrown over both of his shoulders from either side. “Show some bloody respect for the anthem.”

“I dunno the words,” Arthur confesses to no one in particular when he’s asked to sing as loud as possible and the music is turned up.

“Bloody easy, mate,” the man beside him reassures, “you’ll ace it in no time.”

And Arthur finds himself laughing through the lyrics that unravel the tale of a drunken man and his reluctant march home to his wife, dragging his feet, prolonging the inevitable confession. Because he’d lost his job and gambled away their last penny and he knew she is waiting at home with three babes and her wooden roller. 

Arthur sways along with the crowd from side to side, still not quite getting the lyrics right the third time around, but a lot better than he was at the start. Arthur honestly can’t remember having this much fun until he spots the reason across the pub and realizes he’d almost completely forgotten about Eames.

Arthur wants to freeze the moment, because in all honesty, Eames has never looked that bloody gorgeous.

With a beer in his hand raised to the sky and the other arm flung over some other guy’s shoulder, Eames is grinning from ear to ear as he sings along.

His hair is an utter mess, short locks plastered to his forehead. His lips look more swollen than usual in the dim light, wet from beer and the way his tongue flicks out after every line. Every time Eames raises his glass higher, his t-shirt hikes up, revealing a line of flat, muscled belly, a trail of dark hair and a hint of a tattoo.

Arthur smiles when Eames finally catches his gaze. He squints as he tries to make out the words Eames’s is mouthing. It’s along the lines of, ‘Look at you’, or ‘Kathmandu’, or ‘Taste my stew’. Arthur doesn’t give a shit. Not when he realizes that he can have Eames if he wants him. And the look that Eames’s giving him makes Arthur want him right now.

The feeling is so alien, but he refuses to stop himself.

In what feels like decades, Arthur goes for exactly what he wants.

*****

Eames shuts his eyes, swallowing the moan that threatens to contradict his shaking head.

“You don’t want this?” Arthur asks again, no less slurred.

“No, darling,” Eames shivers, “not when you’re drunk.”

“I’m not drunk.”

“What was the color of the cab we took home?”

“Yellow,” Arthur scoffs, shoving his hands further up the front of Eames’s t-shirt, latching wet lips onto his neck.

“No, it was black and it wasn’t a cab,” Eames chuckles as he digs through Arthurs pockets for the keys. “It was my driver who I have to give a raise to since he was forced to witness you molesting me for most of the drive.”

“You liked it,” Arthur grins, circling Eames’s hardened nipple with one index finger while moving his other hand down. “I have hard proof you did.”

Eames grits his teeth, dropping his forehead against the door.

“Loved it,” Eames confesses, dragging his lips over the exposed flesh on Arthur’s neck. “But I was truly sincere when I told you I’m a gentleman, and I’m trying my bloody best to stay that way here.” 

“Fuck nobility,” Arthur’s hand obeys Eames’s effort’s to keep it away from his crotch, only to snake it around his waist and pull him closer. “Fuck me.”

“Good Lord, Arthur,” Eames huffs out, somewhat grateful when he finally grabs purchase of the keys in Arthur’s back pocket. “Please let me go.”

“I’ve tried to,” Arthur confesses against Eames’s neck and Eames can practically feel the desperate sincerity hit his sensitive skin. “God knows I’ve tried so hard, but you’re…”

Eames stops halfway through his clumsy attempt at unlocking the door, as if the soft jingle of keys had been the cause of Eames being unable to hear the rest of Arthur’s proclamation. It could have been the keys, or he can blame it on the deafeningly silent noise that Arthur’s fingertips are making as they snake their way over the muscle on his back. Maybe it’s his own heart hammering in his chest, or Arthur’s harsher breaths that seem bent on causing Eames’s neck multiple third degree burns. It doesn’t really matter. All Eames wants is to drink in every drop of liquid confession that leaks from the insanely stubborn man in his arms during his uncharacteristic befuddlement. A very perverse method, Eames almost allows himself to feel completely malicious. But in all honesty, Arthur is a grown man, and Eames had been drinking too, and he hadn’t planned for the night to turn out like this.

“I’m what, Arthur?” Eames finishes his task begrudgingly, pushing the apartment door open. He doesn’t have to ask if he’s welcome inside this time, Arthur’s already tugging him along, walking backwards none too gracefully. Eames just barely manages to kick the door closed. “Tell me what I am, darling.”

“You’re exactly what I need,” Arthur murmurs almost shyly into Eames’s parted lips.

Eames holds him firmly when he threatens to fall back over the armrest of the tiny, battered couch. When Eames feels Arthur tug more aggressively, he realizes it hadn’t been an accident at all. The adolescent thought of making out on the couch like high school boys in heat causes Eames’s nobility to waver, but not vanish.

“Jesus,” Eames moves Arthur’s persistent hands away from his belt, “how bloody long has it been, Arthur?”

“Since just before Bridget was born,” Arthur confesses his embarrassment against Eames’s shoulder and Eames swallows down a curse out of pure respect and empathy. As if her name’s an automatic trigger, Arthur’s eyes widen and he pushes Eames away. “Bridget-”

“Isn’t home, darling,” Eames’s already got his arms around Arthur before the smaller man so much as touches his daughter’s doorknob. He’s met with slight resistance before ultimately relaxing in Eames’s arms as if just remembering why Bridget isn’t there. “Lorraine promised to phone if Bridget even so much as sneezes so please do relax a little.”

“So we’re alone,” Eames senses a hint of drunken mischief return in Arthur’s voice. The way he presses his butt into the curve of Eames’s hips makes him contemplate his decision to calm Arthur down when he realizes he can only remain principled for so much longer. The look Arthur gives him after turning in his arms is enough to make Eames want to yank teeth, solely to redirect his mind. “We’re alone, Eames. You and me. Don’t you want me?”

Arthur’s smile is challenging and Eames knows it’s because they both know the exact answer to that question. The bloody wanker.

“I do,” Eames breathes his confession out carefully, contemplating telling Arthur the only reason he won’t let this happen. Reminding them both that it is solely due to the fact that Arthur is legless won’t work either. It hadn’t worked when he’d pointed it out to Arthur moments before hauling him out of the pub. Because as nice as the boys were, he didn’t suspect they’d take too kindly to two men humping during their anthem in their sanctuary. Eames had had similar trouble on the intensely handsy drive home. So honesty just isn’t an option because it has been made perfectly clear that in Arthur’s state, he simply won’t listen.

Eames will never be more grateful for his quick wit as he is right then.

“Arthur, wait. Not like this, love. Let’s take it to the bed, yeah?”

Arthur immediately hums his agreement while eyeing his room. “Bed sounds good.”

“Right,” Eames nods, not thinking twice before bending and hauling Arthur up from his middle. He doesn’t mind Arthur’s wriggling, or giggling or the hits of protest against his back. He doesn’t give Arthur much time for anything after finding the light switch; he merely throws Arthur down on the mattress more playfully than roughly.

Eames pretends not to notice just how good Arthur looks right then, legs dangling loosely over the edge, hair a mess, lips parted in silent need. He pretends not to notice Arthur’s pupils dilate when Eames rips his t-shirt off over his head, tossing it to the ground with wordless promise that soon his pants will join.

“Get inside the bed, love,” Eames crawls onto the mattress and leans over Arthur giving him a lingering kiss. One that quickly begins to refuel the fire streaming through the track of veins pumping far too much blood into his groin at frightening levels. “Gotta take a piss, yeah. I’ll be right back.”

“Hurry,” Arthur smiles, and the sad undertone almost dampens the raw passion behind the sturdy hazel gaze. Eames is about to tear himself away, but Arthur’s arms wrap around his shoulders, one snaking into Eames’s hair, holding him firmly against him. It’s a completely platonic embrace that has Eames slightly off-balance when he feels a jolt of some sort in his chest. “Thank you, Eames. I haven’t had that much fun in ages.”

“Yeah?” Eames pulls back, if only to see whether Arthur’s features match the sincerity in his tone.

“Yeah,” Arthur smiles up at him, stroking his hand over the unshaved jaw and Eames can’t help but lean into the touch. “I guess I don’t totally hate you.”

Eames chuckles, mesmerized by the smile on Author’s face. The one that’s reaching his eyes, causing wrinkles and dimples to blaze poetically.

“Hurry,” Arthur’s pushing at his chest and Eames realizes he’d been staring. He rights himself, moving as quickly as possible because Arthur already has his zipper open before his Eames’s mind has even caught up enough to allocate the door.

Eames rests his head against it once the door is closed. When his legs feel weaker than he’d like to admit, he sinks lazily to the ground. Fatigue sneaks up on him minutes later, possibly a full quarter hour and he snaps his eyes open, back feeling stiff.

As expected, he returns to find Arthur sound asleep, face down with the duvet pooled deliciously low around his waist. Arthur’s clothes are on the floor beside the nightstand and Eames groans when he notices a tiny pair of boxer briefs forming the piles pediment.

“Noble, but not a saint,” Eames chuckles, emptying his pockets before pulling off his jeans. Clad in his boxers, Eames shuts off the lights and shuffles himself blindly to the small portion of mattress that Arthur isn’t occupying with his lifeless form.

He doesn’t notice when Arthur groggily wraps his lithe, naked form around him in a vice-like fashion. He doesn’t notice because he too is far too out of it. Which is why neither one of the sleeping men hears the soft tone of Arthur’s phone as it rings for the third consecutive time, tucked safely away in the back pocket of his pants on the floor.

The flashing light and subtle vibrations of Eames’s own cell phone go unnoticed seconds later.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay so guys, I just got some shocking news just now(... really beautiful, amazing, stupendous, shocking news) while posting this up during my lunch break... so please forgive me for any mistakes I overlooked.... I'm shaking with joy, but still had to post this up before dancing outside the office like a monkey. 
> 
> Really hope you enjoy this chapter! THANK YOU FOR ALL THE COMMENTS AND KUDOS, ME WUVS YOU ALL!!! 
> 
> Off to go dance now.... and possibly get arrested too lolololol!!!!!

Arthur refuses to open his eyes. Nothing shatters dreams like this quicker than the simple, subconscious act of opening one’s eyes. As much as he’s dying to see the warm slab of flesh and marble lodged between him and the mattress, he won’t ruin the moment. He might even feel bad about indulging so perversely later, finding such satisfaction making love to a faceless man. But right now, the only word in his vocabulary is savor. 

Arthur struggles against the feeling of spiraling back into reality as he moves against a limb, strokes his fingers through healthy, soft hair and breathes heavily into a strong neck. It’s a dream he’s woken up from far too many times only to find an empty bed and cold sheets. Only to be greeted by feelings of maddening disappointment. The hand on his back is large and strong and peculiarly familiar, deliberate strokes skimming over Arthur’s spine and massaging the back of his neck, raising hairs with every fraction of bare skin touched.

“Arthur,” he hates the way the gruff voice jerks him to life, hates the fogginess that immediately clouds his head. He’s startled by the pair of eyes burning into his as soon as he’s able to focus. It takes a moment longer for Arthur to realize he’s almost completely breathless and has yet to stop moving against the thigh between his legs or the hardness against his hipbone. “How much longer do you insist on torturing me like this?”

“I’m sorry,” Arthur tenses, taking in Eames’s flushed face and the almost wounded look in his deep olive, blue eyes. The juice box in his hand is crumpled and the drops of citrus on the larger man’s chest give Arthur a dangerous image of Eames involuntarily tensing on the brink of losing control. Of Eames subconsciously squeezing his eyes shut, clenching his jaw and locking his fist, trying desperately not to act on his own raw need. Arthur tries not to blush any further but it’s nearly impossible. He clears his painfully dry throat and opts for nonchalance, as if he hasn’t just been rutting against a near stranger who is undoubtedly the cause of Arthur’s stimulating - inappropriate dream mere seconds ago. “What time is it?”

“You only slept for three hours, darling,” Eames is smug and smiling once again, “I was awake through all the drooling and sexual harassment thanks to your snoring.”

“I don’t snore,” Arthur rubs his head, too exhausted to remember if he’s wearing anything other than the twisted duvet tangled around the two of them. Judging by the feeling of things, he strongly doubts it and immediately swallows down a groan of pure embarrassment. He pushes away from Eames, fully prepared to take the blanket with him regardless of whether Eames is naked or not. It is his bed after all, he concedes childishly.

“You can let go of me now,” Arthur tries to frown when Eames’s grip tightens around his bare waist. He knows they both know that he’s not putting up half the fight he could if he really wanted to get away from Eames. He knows it’s leaking out in waves, making itself known from the way the corners of his eyes crinkle when he’s finally unable to hide his smile. 

“Not when I was forced to stand by and endure all of this when you were unconscious,” Eames nuzzles Arthur’s neck. “No, I’m sure I deserve a few more minutes of this.”

Arthur easily relents, allowing himself to sink into the warm embrace. He can feel Eames’s heartbeat pumping against his fingertips as he trails a hand over the hard chest beneath him, through the soft hair, taking in the scent of sweat and innocent drops of nectar. Arthur finds himself struggling to keep from licking the sun-bronzed skin, struggling even harder to stop himself from verbalizing just how good the completely unfamiliar physical contact feels. He feels protected, he realizes, and it scares him. Not just by the thought of another man taking over his primary duty, but also by the fact that it’s making him want more of it. He wants Eames to keep holding him like he’s as weak as he feels, to keep rubbing his back and shoulder as if they’re as tense as they are. Because Arthur is worn-out, and as he sighs and eases further into Eames, he absolutely hates that he’s letting Eames know exactly how much he’s yearning to be taken care of. Even if only for a moment.

“I thought I dreamed these,” Arthur mumbles before mindlessly tracing the inked flesh with his lips. Eames’s fingers are digging painfully into his spine, working deliciously through each knot he effortlessly finds. Arthur is grateful he’s able to catch himself before he moans. The shiver, however, he’ll pretend never happened regardless of the fact that he feels Eames chuckle. He decides to focus more on the art and less on Eames’s hands, licking the lines on Eames’s collar bone and then pulling away ever so slightly to study the patterns. They aren’t one design, that much is clear. Each looking more like an afterthought than the next, yet all coming together almost too poetically. Arthur is convinced that no man has the right to impulsively defile their own body and look this good afterwards. “Whatever did possess you to do all this?” Arthur grins when Eames laughs at his pathetic attempt at a British accent.

“Well, I got the first lot in prison.”

Arthur chuckles and he’s about to demand the truth.

Instead he tenses the second he looks up and finds nothing but complete honesty gleam in the other man’s eyes. He feels unsettled when Eames immediately pulls him closer the moment he instinctively tries to pull away. “Don’t do that, love, don’t judge me like that. It was a highly complicated situation.

Arthur’s immediately reminded of a previous conversation that had gone like this. One in which Eames was able to prove that his ‘complicated situation’ was somewhat legitimate. And despite how much he wants Eames to be able to talk himself out of this one too, he can’t seem to shake the chill icing his blood to the point of discomfort. Eames has been to prison and has tattoos and has held his daughter. Has been to his home. He’s in bed with a man he barely knows, an unpremeditated series of events are happening all because he’s been focusing on Eames long enough to let the universe pull a fast one on him. 

Instinct yells at him to be furious with Eames for not mentioning this to him on their first meeting. Mad at himself for not running background checks with the FBI and the LAPD and bloody NASA just to be sure. And then something flashes in Eames’s eyes that makes Arthur stop thinking melodramatically altogether. The pain there is all that keeps him still, guarded but still. 

“Look, you’re not the first person to walk away when-”

“How complicated?” Arthur doesn’t know why he needs an answer even more than he bothers to remember to keep breathing.

“Okay, I lied. It isn’t complicated at all,” Eames avoids Arthur’s questioning eyes completely as he speaks uncharacteristically faster. “I couldn’t stand doing nothing after finding out the old man was molesting my little sister so I figured I could either kill him or abduct her. Wouldn’t have been much help to Ariadne, my spending life in the clink so I went with the latter. She was sixteen at the time, wanted to at least hide her with me until she was eighteen and no longer had to answer to our sorry excuse for parents, but they found us fairly easily. So I got locked up for one count of family abduction. I was twenty four, notorious for being quite a naughty little lad in town and other than that I didn’t have shit to my name. No high school diploma, nothing really, so it wasn’t hard for the judge to make up his mind about me.”

“That’s fucking bullshit,” Arthur doesn’t notice that he’s clinging to Eames until his short nails bite further into Eames’s sides, causing Eames to wince and then chuckle. Arthur frowns, running his fingers over the bright pink marks. “I’m sorry. It just doesn’t seem fair at all.

Eames hums then shrugs. “Life isn’t, sometimes.

“How long were you in for?” Arthur asks carefully, not sure just how far he’s allowed to pry regardless of how blatantly intimate their position is right then. Wrapped in each other’s arms, suddenly surrounded by not much more than honesty and compassion.

“Six months and some,” Eames shrugs it off as if it is nothing and Arthur finds himself deeply annoyed by the smile on his face. “You eventually stop counting the days as hope of leaving dies away. But, Ariadne, she never gave up. The bastard had brainwashed her so much into believing that if she said anything terrible things would happen to me. But Ariadne, she’s always been a fighter, just look at how much she endured for me.”

Arthur watches Eames as his eyes drift off and suddenly he is far away. The tightening of his jaw is all that gives away his tension as he blinks into nothingness. It isn’t until Arthur touches a hand to his jaw that he snaps out of his trance and glances down, his smile completely tight and un-Eames. Arthur feels his chest pain.

“Anyway, she managed to get our story out and a nice lawyer was kind enough to go out of his way and dig up enough evidence to re-open the case,” Eames’s smile becomes genuine and Arthur feels himself relax slightly. “We won, Miles legally adopted Ariadne and well, he’s been like a bloody father to me for over a decade. More than a father, really. Helped me put myself together, helped me pass the bar, yeah.”

“And where’s your real father?” Arthur’s voice is softer again.

“Rotting behind bars where he belongs,” Eames suddenly moves smoothly until he’s looming over Arthur. It’s insanely predatory and Arthur immediately feels trapped in the best way ever. With Eames like this, Arthur realizes just how large the other man is, muscles twitching distractedly as he holds himself above Arthur with a look of pure lust despite the conversation. Arthur sees hunger laced with passion seconds before Eames lowers his head into his neck and Arthur is convinced that Eames has had years of practice at this. Practice at changing the subject, shutting that part of his life down with anything at his disposal to work with. A quick joke, a charming smile a comment about the weather. Arthur shudders at the feeling of the light nipping lined from his jaw, roaming over his throat before tracing his very sensitive collarbone. This conversation is far from over, Arthur wants to say, but he finds himself momentarily unable to form the many questions that had been at the tip of his tongue only moments before. All other questions but one which refuses to leave him alone.

“Would you really have killed him?”

Eames stiffens noticeably and Arthur is shocked to the core by the fact that he was able to catch the man off guard. When Eames does meet his gaze, his eyes are cold and hollow and he looks sort of irritated.

“What would you have done if it was Bridget?”

They hold each other’s gaze and Arthur is unable to do much more than wince internally at the gut-wrenching thought. And he can’t believe how much he understands Eames so easily. How alike they are yet worlds apart. He’s thoroughly grateful when Eames doesn’t wait for a verbal reply before he returns to his previous task of doing crazy things to his neck.

“Enough about me, darling. It’s time for you to answer some questions.” 

“What kind of questions?” Arthur says completely mindlessly, because Eames has completely lowered himself down and he’s too dazed by the way their bodies fit perfectly together. And Eames is large and heavy but the slight difficulty breathing doesn’t seem to matter when Eames’s holding him that close. The gentle way Eames uses his chest as a pillow like an over-grown child, the way Eames softly parts Arthur’s legs as if he belongs right there, all of it is so warm that Arthur feels as though he can actually fall asleep again just like that.

“Where’s Bridget’s mother?”

Its Arthur’s turn to tense. It was an inevitable question but throws him off nonetheless.

“Come on, Arthur. Trust me.” Eames encourages when the silence drags on. “I’ll never hold anything you say to me against you unless you say my name.”

Arthur scrunches his face before finding it impossible to not laugh.

“That line can easily be blamed for terminal illness.”

“You wouldn’t be so quick to judge if you even remembered half of your shockingly bad attempts at humor from last night.”

“Okay, my jokes were not –”

“Please don’t change the subject, Arthur,” Eames is suddenly serious, a touch of annoyance tinting his otherwise sturdy tone. “It’s painfully clear that you don’t talk to anyone about it. Not even your own daughter. You’re damaging that little girl. Did you even have any idea that she’s going around with the false impression that she doesn’t have a mum because she’s not special enough.”

“What?” Arthur frowns, trying to sit up but the weight on him holds him in place.

“Yeah, mate,” Eames sounds almost angry in a way Arthur’s never heard before. “She told me that on the night of the wedding when I asked where her mum is. Some pink little playground bitch keeps drilling it into your daughter’s head that only special little girls have mothers. Bridget’s walking around convincing herself that it’s her fault all because you’re too afraid to tell her th-”

“Her mom-” Arthur stops, feeling oddly numb. Because even though he hasn’t said much else yet, it already feels as though Eames is draining every confession out of him. Every burden. So that they can share them and he doesn’t have to carry the pain alone. It’s so unnerving that he pulls Eames closer just to make sure that the other man is real and won’t evaporate if he blinks too many times. “I met her mom in college, we were both film majors. We immediately became best friends. And the usual thing happened; one night of complete recklessness gave me the most precious gift ever. And we agreed to raise Bridget together; I dropped out of college to work several part-time jobs while she continued to study. But she was really unstable, always had been. And shortly after Bridget’s birth, she left.”

Arthur is grateful for the squeeze he receives, shocked by how much he doesn’t really need it. He’s always assumed that this story would be the hardest thing to retell, but he’s strangely at ease. Perhaps it’s because Eames shared something truly intimate with him as well. Perhaps it’s because he wants to trust Eames and he’s finding it impossibly harder not to with each breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Eames whispers against Arthur’s chest.

“I’m not. I have Bridget,” Arthur returns Eames’s smile, and then lays Eames’s head cheek down when his bristled chin begins to dig into a sensitive bone on his chest. “That morning when I woke up to that note that said she was gone, the first thing I did was run to Bridget’s crib, and I got down on my knees and I cried and I thanked God she’d left Bridget with me.”

“And you took care of her all by yourself? What about her grandparents.”

“I quickly cut all ties with them. All of them,” Arthur chuckles as he thinks it through for a second. “Both parties wanted custody for all the right reasons at first, and then it just turned ugly. Turned into some kind of competition and Bridget was the prize. It became toxic even visiting any of them, so I left. And I’ve been here raising my daughter as best as I can ever since. I get occasional phone calls and Christmas cards from my folks but apart from that it’s just been Bridget and me.” He smiles, “And AJ… who practically bounced in here from next-door the day we were moving in and declared herself the babysitter before making us pancakes in my kitchen.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Eames laughs and Arthur joins in, feeling much too light and content to be the same man he was two weeks ago. 

“Does it always have to be like that?” Eames’s voice is unsure when he next looks up into Arthur's eyes after what feels like a full five minutes of comfortable silence.

“Like what?”

“Just you and Bridget?”

Arthur feels the weight on him shift as the words sink in and ring in his ears. His face is suddenly way too hot when Eames is hovering above him like before, only now its way different. Eames has a soft smile on his face; eyes tracing Arthur’s parted lips seconds before his index finger does the same.

“You don’t have to answer that now,” Eames insists in a way that wordlessly adds on but you damn well will soon enough. 

“I don’t want to,” Arthur replies to the mute certainty behind Eames’s thick lashes.

“What do you want, Arthur?”

Arthur is not too stubborn to admit to himself that he is still a little bit sick. He feels the subtle punishment from the stupidity of mixing beer with vodka and vodka with whiskey. He feels the quiet churn in his stomach and the beginnings of what is sure to be a monster migraine. But he’s also certain he’s still a little tipsy when he slides his hands down Eames’s sides, eye’s never leaving the quickly dilating pupils burning into him with every inch his palms cover. And he hooks his fingers into the silky waistband of the shorts obstructing his venture for more skin.

Arthur can’t help but chuckle at the way Eames rolls his eyes and wiggles clumsily out of his boxers, obviously having caught on to Arthur’s teasing halt in movement. His laughter stops altogether when Eames manages to kick the duvet off in his haste and suddenly reality strikes. And Eames isn’t looking into his eyes anymore, his eyes are trained fiercely on Arthur’s nakedness, burning into his flesh as if he actually wants to cause him some sort of pain, if only to have an excuse to kiss every inch of him better afterwards. And Arthur feels his whole body jerk when Eames runs a thumb over his hipbone and his heart stops when Eames looks up at him and smiles.

His hands are on Eames immediately, in Eames’s hair pulling him in for a much needed kiss and the other on his chest, tracing the tattoos that feel completely different now. In his cluttered mind the designs jut against his fingertips as if artistically showing Arthur all of Eames’s pain. Making him feel it in the most intimate and chilling way. Like the lines are veins pumping rhythmically to the thunderous beating of Eames’s heart which is trying to explain to Arthur exactly where he’s been and who he is and where he wants to go.

Where he wants them to go.

And in the heat of the moment, with Eames’s relentless mouth over his and inflamed flesh against his own, with both of their needs pulsing against each other with every uncontrollable thrust, Arthur will go just about anywhere Eames wants to take him. And the thought is exhilarating, its unadulterated ecstasy. Such contentment that Arthur wonders what’s been keeping him from allowing his heart to ever beat this way for someone else before.

“Eames, wait,” Arthur bows his head away, and it’s so painful. But he’s too accustomed to this kind of pain. To this kind of sacrifice he makes daily.

“Bloody Lord above, no,” Eames whines, and his face scrunches up before he drops himself down on Arthur and buries his head in the juncture between his neck and shoulder. “Arthur I swear, I swear if you stop me now I will climb to the highest bloody building in this city, lie down on the roof and cry. Like a little naked schoolgirl, Arthur, I will.”

Arthur is laughing uncontrollably by the time Eames looks up at him again, the expression on his face displaying just how unfunny he finds the situation. And Arthur can’t help but be in awe by the way Eames is able to pull off a full-scale blush and subtle pout, all while looking completely male and predatory at the same time.

“I want this, Eames,” Arthur finally sobers, running a soothing hand through Eames’s hair, the other over his rough jaw.

“Yeah?” there’s a hint of a smirk.

“Yes,” Arthur smiles. “I just need to put my mind at ease and-”

“Right,” Eames is off the bed before Arthur can finish his sentence. He stalks, nakedly, without an ounce of apprehension to the small table beside the door and Arthur muses at the amount of confidence straightening his back and squaring his jaw. “Let’s use my phone then? We can make it a conference call during which I shall inform your daughter of the horrible things I intend on doing to her father and how delighted he is by the knowledge of it all.” 

Arthur smiles, only slightly uneasy by the fact that not only does Eames always read his mind, but always seems to get it right. He pulls Eames back down onto the bed beside him when he’s close enough, not ashamed to show Eames that he’s already missing the contact.

“Yeah,” Arthur rolls half onto Eames, a different kind of anticipation making him feel giddy all over again. “Put her on speaker, she’ll love that.”

Arthur watches as Eames’s smile changes into something else, something almost stale before it falls away completely with each click of a button on the gadget in his hand. And then his eyes snap to Arthur’s and Arthur’s heart stops. And Eames’s next words are like a bullet to the heart, the gunfire echoing somewhere far off in the distance.

We have to get to the hospital. 

 

*****  
Eames hadn’t been lying when he’d said he’d been studying Arthur. It was an involuntary act which brought up both amusing and shocking details through his extensive and extremely obstructed research. So Eames knows that nothing he can say or do now will ease the tension out of Arthur’s cement shoulders or suck the crimson from his face. Every breath Arthur takes is a deep huff. Every movement oozes anxiety. The lack of answers to every question Eames has asked leaves a dull ache in Eames’s stomach.

“Are you alright, love?” Eames tries again either way, because he hates the way Arthur jumped out of the car before it came to a full stop. Still no reply.

Eames is certain if the hospital doors were not automatic, Arthur would have slammed them shut so hard that the glass would’ve hailed to the ground. He keeps up easily with Arthur’s fast pace as they navigate through the mostly white vicinity, wanting desperately to comfort Arthur with a hand on his back. But Eames knows better than to put certain invaluable limbs at risk when their loss can be avoided. 

“Excuse me, where’s the children’s ward?” Eames stops a passing nurse, trying on his calmest façade. Because Arthur freaking out at the reception desk is not going to get them any closer to finding Bridget. The lady behind the counter with an impeccable ponytail and frameless glasses looks five notches stupider with every question Arthur asks her. Because of course she ought to know exactly where his daughter is and if she’s alright, even without the aid of a surname, initials even. Oh Arthur, Eames thinks, feeling his heart swell further for the man.

“Come on, darling,” Eames has a hand under Arthur’s arm just as another lady joins the one Arthur has successfully put on edge. Eames’s certain she’s new if she isn’t accustomed to such behaviour and silently apologizes to both of them before dragging Arthur along with him. It’s almost as if Arthur doesn’t realise what’s happening for a full minute, because the second he does, he shrugs childishly out of Eames’s grasp.

“Are you coming or not, Arthur?” Eames says, and it’s not really a question. But Arthur still remains rooted to the spot, even after the elevator opens and Eames steps inside.

Arthur’s been stubborn from day one. The most stubborn man Eames’s ever had the utmost pleasure of knowing. He knows Arthur doesn’t take help and despises being out of control. But he also knows Arthur will sacrifice the embarrassment of admitting defeat for his daughter, so he’s not the least bit surprised when Arthur steps into the lift with him. 

“Arthur,” Eames whispers, stepping closer to him because they’re not alone in the car. “You’re going to give yourself a heart attack over nothing. Bridget is alright, it’s just a fracture. Honestly, I don’t even know if I can tell you a single bone in my body that I didn’t break when I was around her age.”

“Don’t fucking lecture me about this when you have no idea how it feels,” Arthur speaks to the door, not sparing Eames a glance. Eames had thought he would be happy for a response, but the tone in Arthur’s voice makes him swallow hard. “Bridget got hurt, Eames. She got hurt and I wasn’t there. I mean what if-”

“Don’t even start with the what ifs, Arthur. Nothing more than what was meant to happen happened, alright?”

“I shouldn’t have gone out with you,” Arthur mutters, almost as if Eames wasn’t supposed to hear it. But he does and it’s a direct blow to his gut. It brings up pure anger that swirls easily with the hurt and bile bubbling at the surface.

“You don’t mean that.” Eames takes a deep breath to calm himself. “You can’t protect her from life, mate.”

“Yeah, but at least I try. I try with all my might to keep her safe,” Arthur’s voice cracks on the last word and Eames checks to see if he’s not crying. He isn’t. “Nobody else will try as hard as I do because nobody else knows her worth as much as I do.”

“Well that’s a right shame, Arthur. And it might be true but it’s only because you’re not giving anybody else the chance to love her. Or know her worth. Or make her happy.”

The elevator stops and Eames brushes past Arthur as he steps out, making sure there’s no misunderstood hostility in the fleeting contact.

Eames feels Arthur on his heel as he navigates his way down hallways with the rushed directions he’d received from the nurse moments ago. He knows he’s followed them accurately when he spots Lorraine sitting in a waiting area, Maggie sleeping in her lap. Lorraine’s usually poised demeanor is sluggish, a complete giveaway that she’s been awake most of the night. She stands the moment she sees them, careful enough not to wake the sleeping toddler in her arms.

“Arthur, Im so sorry-”

“Where is she?” Arthur demands over Eames’s shoulder as Eames guides him away from Lorraine toward the nurses’ station. He knows Arthur won’t hurt her, but he doesn’t like how ominously calm Arthur’s tone suddenly is. He feels the tightness in Arthur’s shoulder as he rubs him in a way he hopes feels calming. Eames does the talking, asking for the paper work all while not missing the way Arthur is annoyed by his deliberate attempt to act as a barricade between him and Lorraine.

“She’s still asleep, the doctor said the anesthesia won’t take too long to wear off,” Lorraine offers. “Just a few hours.”

“She had to be put to sleep?” Arthur nearly screaks, completely ignoring the clipboard Eames is trying to distract him with and then pen Eames’s forcing into his hand.

“It is standard procedure for the patient to be asleep during a closed reduction,” the nurse behind the counter adds in and Eames doesn’t miss the way she looks at Lorraine. It’s a friendly exchange that clearly says, I’ll save you. “The doctors merely needed to set her bones back in place before applying the cast.”

Arthur stares at the lady as if he’s about to tell her he didn’t ask for her input, but Eames squeezes his shoulder before he can verbalize the expression on his face. Eames taps an index finger on the paperwork and Arthur looks down at it for all of five seconds before he begins to fill it out.

“How did it happen?” Eames asks the nurse, and then repeats the question to Lorraine because he’s not quite sure who he’s going to get the answer from this time.

“She fell out of the top bunk,” Lorraine admits, “I told the girls they can only sleep on Devon’s bunk bed if they agreed to do just that, but they decided to play a game.”

“And you promised you’d watch her,” Arthur mumbles, pen never halting and writing getting more frantic.

“It was three o’clock in the morning, Arthur,” Lorraine’s voice rises considerably and cracks somewhere in the middle. “Christ, you’re making me sound like a terrible person.”

“May I have your medical aid card, sir?” the nurse asks. It’s another save and Eames is really beginning to like this nurse. He offers Lorraine a soft smile because she looks as though she needs it. She looks worlds worse than she had before her encounter with Arthur, but he doesn’t have the heart to tell her. Instead, he wraps his free arm around her, tugging her once until her head is lying on his shoulder and Maggie remains fast asleep, undisturbed.

“I don’t have one,” Arthur says softly.

Eames’s not sure he’s heard correctly, but when he looks back at Arthur, his face is flushed a startling red and he’s staring down at the half complete document in front of him. He’s stopped writing altogether, and when he swallows, it’s almost painful in Eames’s own throat. He can see Arthur’s just about reached his limit and he can’t have Arthur break. Not on his watch.

“Excuse us,” Eames thinks quickly and gently guides Arthur away from the desk. Even Arthur’s movements are weak, eyes shockingly void when he’s forced to look up at Eames with the gentle coax of his index finger under his chin.

“Listen Arthur,” Eames whispers, “you have nothing to worry about. I’ll take care of this. I feel bad enough as is.”

“Bridget’s my daughter, Eames,” Arthur swallows again and it seems harder each time. “I’m taking care of her. I’m gonna take care this.”

“Arthur,” Eames frowns, hating how robotic Arthur sounds. “Let me help you. Tell me what you need me to do, please.”

“I need you to leave.”

Eames’s mouth falls slightly open, because he’d been about to say something but he can’t seem to remember what it was anymore. He hadn’t expected Arthur to say that, but in all honesty, he should’ve. Arthur’s hand on his chest burns, the gentle push makes his entire body ache.

“Please, leave.”

But there’s something in the way Arthur won’t let go that makes Eames know his words are pure contradiction to what he really wants. So Eames steps forward and places a soft kiss on Arthur’s lips, sighing into the sensation when he’s met with no objection. Hating that he gets no reaction.

“I’ll call later to see how she is, yeah?” Eames forces a smile, and it’s sad and pathetic although it’s meant to be reassuring. “To check how you both are.”

Eames looks at the hand that drags down his chest as long as it can until all contact is lost and Arthur’s walking back to the desk. It takes him a moment to gather himself before he gestures for Lorraine to follow him. Lorraine says something to which Arthur completely ignores and when she finally reaches Eames, they both fall into step, wordlessly leaving Arthur be.

Before turning the corner, Eames looks back to see Arthur standing alone, crouched over with his elbows on the desk and his head in his hands. It makes it that much harder to walk away and Eames realizes, he shouldn’t have looked back.


End file.
